


First Christmas After

by Alley_Skywalker



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Coda, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, not W&P compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 02:44:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13204107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/pseuds/Alley_Skywalker
Summary: The first Christmas after Anatole's near-elopement with Natasha, Dolokhov comes to Petersburg despite his reservations.





	First Christmas After

**Author's Note:**

  * For [noclouds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noclouds/gifts).



“Anatole?” Dolokhov stops in the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the wooden frame. He watches Anatole, who is stood by the large Christmas tree, with his usual sense of fond amusement. Anatole turns, slowly, a blue ornament still in his hand and smiles one of his fanciful, happy smiles. 

“You came.”

Dolokhov rolls his eyes. “I almost didn’t.” He hadn’t meant to; he hadn’t planned to, but it was hard to resist when both Anatole and Helene had written to ask him to come. It is hard to say _no_ to either of them, though for different reasons. 

The familiar sparkle is still in Anatole’s eyes, though hidden under a layer of caution. “Part of me thought you might not.”

“I figured I wouldn’t pass up a chance for presents and free alcohol.” Dolokhov jokes, sauntering into the room. All these months, the war, and he still can’t keep his eyes off Anatole when he looks like this – in his shirt sleeves, his hair free of its pomade prison and falling into his eyes, a warm light shining from behind his smile and eyes.

“Stop,” Anatole says with a half-laugh and turns back toward the tree to hang the ornament he’s holding. 

“I don’t think so.” Dolokhov comes to stand beside him so that their shoulders touch. “Your sister will be here soon, and then I won’t get another chance to tease you until devil knows when.”

Anatole is still smiling, though he refuses to meet Dolokhov’s eyes. Finally, he says, his expression smoothing out, “We should talk about it now. It’s best if we get it out of the way quickly.”

Doloikhov raises an eyebrow at him as though he’s not certain what Anatole is talking about. But of course he knows. He knows all too well. They had written so little to each other after _the incident_ \- almost nothing at all – and Anatole had been in such a rush to leave Moscow… Dolokhov doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s not sure what he would say: _You kissed me and then tried to run away with someone else_? _I love you, but I don’t know how we’re supposed to have a real relationship_? _Do you even love me at all, or is this just another game_?

He doesn’t particularly want to say any of these things. But he doesn’t want to say that it’s alright, that it doesn’t matter. Because it does matter – there have always been others, there would always be women, for both of them. But a flight of fancy affair is different than leaving forever. 

“You start—no. Toto…” Dolokhov runs a hand through hia hair in frustration. “What are we to say to each other on this? You’ve already said you’re sorry. I think me being here shows that I forgive you…”

“But you’re probably wondering where we go from here.”

Dolokhov looks over at him with some surprise. That was more perceptive than Anatole usually is. Dolokhov wonders if Helene has had a hand in this. “Only a little,” he says, cautiously. “I don’t know if it matters. This world wouldn’t afford us a future anyway.” 

Anatole turns and takes his hands. In the glow of the Christmas tree’s candles, Anatole’s hair has the warm shade of honey and Dolokhov reaches out and gently pushes a strand of it from his forehead. “I scared myself last year. Not because of the law or because her father or fiancé might call me out. It scared me that I almost left you behind. You and Helene and…everything. And I’ve missed you this year terribly. So terribly, Fedya.” He leans forward and presses his forehead to Dolokhov’s. 

“I missed you too,” Dolokhov says, swallowing past the lump that has formed in his throat. Anatole’s eyes are large, crystal grey-blue. _He’s a boy. He’s my boy. Always has been._

“I know you have no reason to believe me when I tell you it won’t happen again. But it won’t. I can’t promise you I will never take fancy again – you know me, you know how I like…”

“Young girls?”

“Pretty things.”

Dolokhov laughs. “Oh, yes.”

“You said yourself we can’t be together properly—What I mean is…I will always come home to you.”

Dolokhov sighs and pulls him in closer. It’s Christmas. The Kuragins’ sitting room is warm, quiet and currently empty. Anatole fits into his arms as he always has and he’s real and familiar and close. This has always been Dolokhov’s weakness – the unfortunate ability to fall in love with the people who needed the most attention and caretaking. His mother says he wants to be someone’s hero. Maybe it’s true. 

“I’m terrible at sharing,” Dolokhov says, only half-seriously. He’s not sure he has a right to complaint – he’s not very good at monogamy either. 

“Nor am I. But, I—I want you here. Every Christmas, every time we come home from deployment…”

“I want that too, Toto. I always have.” Dolokhov kisses him, softs, briefly. He’s only a little afraid that someone might see. “I’m on leave for about a month, so we have plenty of time to hash out the specifics. But now it’s Christmas and maybe, after the year we’ve had, we should just enjoy it.”

Anatole grins, and leans in for another kiss, hands on Dolokhov’s shoulders for balance. It’s gentle and soft – so unlike the hurried, greedy, drunken kisses they’re used to. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”


End file.
